


Magnolia

by Spineless



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ed gets his butt kicked, F/M, Family, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, as usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14510271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: Ed builds a house. It's a place where anyone passing through Resembool can come and just exist for a while. It's a place where friends gather, where he can Al can break from their travels, a place to call home and plant a magnolia tree in the backyard.Then one day a stranger shows up and threatens to destroy this life he's made.





	1. modern botany

**Author's Note:**

> For my wife. See you soon
> 
> Inspired by "Magnolia" by The Hush Sound, though not a songfic. Lyrics at the beginning of the chapters are taken from there as well. 
> 
> The magnolia trees are in full bloom here and have begun to drop their petals. I'm going to work to finish this fic before they're all bare.

_Your heartbeat is pulsing at night in your chest_  
_It's gold and it's glowing with all the life you have left_

* * *

 

The house had not taken long to become fully engulfed in flames. Edward was surprised – he had expected it to take a little more time, or at least not go up so fast. But the books and papers and wooden furniture that had filled the rooms and the old foundations upon which it all sat were devoured quickly by the small fire that started in the basement. It hadn’t even been summoned by alchemy, just a match and some curled old pages of research. 

He remembers the sound the windows made when they blew out – a _pop_ like an explosion and glass shattering like heartbreak. Alphonse hadn’t even enough time to shield his brother with his hulking metal body, but they were a safe enough distance away that it didn’t matter. He remembers the sounds the house made as it burned and died, so much noisier than he would have thought. He hadn’t known death to be so loud: when his mother died, finally, after days of illness, it was quietly, with little more than the sigh of a final breath. The old house raged against its demise. 

Edward remembers the old house as he builds a new one. He recalls hours playing hide-and-seek within its drafty rooms as he hauls pieces of lumber across an empty plot of land under a languid Resembool sun. He remembers his mother sitting at their kitchen table counting tomatoes and tablespoons and pounds of sugar or wheat, as he counts iron nails he remembers the way she calculated sums on scraps of paper. The way that certain floorboards creaked, the stairs to avoid when sneaking out of bed, how big it felt once their father left, how quiet it became when their mother died.

The new house takes him months – _months_ – to complete. There had been a time, not even too long ago, where he had built and rebuilt houses and buildings and structures in minutes with hardly a thought at all. He had loved to mend, to repair what had been broken: all it had taken was a press of his palms. He had loved the look on the person’s face when he saved whatever was thought to have been lost. 

Al wanted to help once he caught wind of what his brother was up to. He was visiting Resembool, back from Xing for the first time in a year, and the sight of Edward dangling from the spindly house frame nearly made his heart stop. It would be done before dinner, he tried to reason, begging to help, confused and slightly anguished when Ed kept refusing his outstretched hands. 

It keeps me fit, Ed reasoned, hands on his hips, sweat dripping from his brow. It’ll be finished before the year is up. The next time you come back you’ll have your own room and everything.

Al crossed his arms over his chest. And what do Winry and Granny think of… all this?

Ed couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Granny’ll want us outta her hair sooner than she realizes. Whatever hair she has left, anyway. 

Al had laughed at that. _Brother!_

Ed kept his promise. Though the paint hadn’t even had time to dry, the next time Al came to Resembool, he had a room in a new house. Ed built them a home, he built them _all_ a home. It was a place where anyone passing through Resembool could come and just _be_ for a while. Him and Al or Mustang and Hawkeye and their squad or Gracia and Elicia Hughes, who liked the idea of coming to visit and escape the harsh city air. It was a place for friends, a place to come back to when they broke from their travels, a place to consolidate their research, to rest, to be still, if only for a few weeks at a time. 

And if the house did appear to be slightly closer to Rockbell Automail than their childhood home, well, nobody said anything to _him_ about it.

* * *

It’s sometime later in the Spring after the house is finished when Edward and Winry walk together into town to peruse the visiting market. The house is built and painted but barren inside, save for a very roughly hewn table, couple of chairs, and a bed frame. They’re not there to do any serious shopping for the house, mostly to do their usual shopping and fantasize about filling up shelves and cabinets that don’t yet exist with the various items they come across. 

In unison, elbows brushing, they slow and stop in front of a small stall selling old books that look a little worse for wear. Winry runs her fingers over a slim cloth-bound volume, one with dented corners and a water stain splashed over the front. _Modern Botany_ reads the cover in faded letters. She lifts it up to show Ed, her eyebrows arched in an expression that says, _‘Modern’, huh?_ Ed breathes a laugh and sorts through some books himself, settling to flip through a cookbook specializing in different kinds of soups from Xing. 

Winry sighs a quiet _oh_ as her book falls open. The pair of pages illustrate a flowering tree on one and a close up of one of the blooms on the other, with botanical notes and details reproduced in a careful hand. The drawing captures the likeness of the pink and white flowers quite skillfully, and Edward nods in recognition. 

“Magnolia tree,” he says. “They’re planted on some of the bigger streets in Central. The flowers are brighter pink, in real life.” 

“Wow.” Winry touches the yellowing page, almost as if she can feel the velvety petals. “They’re so beautiful.”

“I’d say let’s go see them, but they usually bloom pretty early. I suppose I can always ask Hawkeye if they’ve dropped their petals yet.”

“That’s okay. We can always see them next year.” Her fingers linger, tracing the edge of the flower, the shape of the tree from its trunk to its many branches. Edward fights the urge to take her hand in his and press his lips to her fingertips. He runs the edge of his thumb over the exposed length of her forearm and she looks up at him, a slight flush spreading across her face. She nudges him back and points at the book he’s ceased looking through. “Are you going to get that one?”

“I would, but my Xingese isn’t that great.” 

“That’s too bad. Maybe Al can help me translate a recipe the next time he visits.” 

Ed gives her a toothy grin. “Oh, he’d _love_ that. He’s been abroad for the better part of nearly three years and still half the letters he sends are just descriptions of the food he’s been eating.”

Winry laughs. “I’m glad it’s not only me! He’s started to draw little pictures and everything.”

“I guess I definitely have to get this book, then. What about that one?” Ed reaches out his hand for _Modern Botany_. 

For a second or two, Winry hesitates, but hands it to him. 

Later that summer, new house still nearly entirely empty, Edward leaves. He has to. There’s still conflict throughout much of the country, spanning East to West and North to South, and he’s been gone a long time. The research he and Al have gathered on Xingese alkahestry helps civilians in New Ishvala and soldiers at Briggs. Being on the move, traveling from place to place, it’s all second nature to him. But he doesn’t remember leaving ever being this hard before.

* * *

Six months later, one morning in late winter, Winry is woken by Den’s loud, insistent barking. Still mostly asleep, she slides on her slippers, pulls her robe on over her sweater and ties it tight as she tip toes through the cool house. She opens the door and, blinking in the early sun, steps out onto the porch. 

Edward is still a ways down the path, moving as fast as he can as he maneuvers a massive wheelbarrow. Inside the wheelbarrow is a pile of dirt and emerging from the pile of dirt is a leafless sapling. As he draws closer Winry can see that he’s dirty, of course, and his hair much longer. He waves hugely and doubles his wheelbarrowing efforts. Den doesn’t stop barking until he reaches the house. He drops the wheelbarrow and leans over, hands on his knees, panting. She doesn’t let him rest, instead coming to paw and sniff and lick at him. He laughs, breathless. 

“What on earth is _that_ , Edward Elric?” Winry folds her arms over her chest, partially for warmth. 

He holds up one finger, still catching his breath, but grins. “It’s…” He straightens up and takes another breath. “A magnolia tree!”

“A magnolia tree?”

“For our house. Remember? _Modern Botany_.” 

She blinks. She does remember. She’s flipped through that book what feels like dozens of times. All the illustrations are detailed and vivid and gorgeous, but the pages always seem to fall open at the Magnolia tree. She blinks again. He called it _our house_. 

“Do you know anything about raising a tree?” 

“Hey, you’re the one with the book.” 

“I think it’s mostly for aesthetics. There’s not a lot of practical information.”

“Well, a tree is just a really big plant, so how hard could it be?” 

The ground thaws a few weeks later and they have a tree planted in the backyard before there’s furniture in the upstairs rooms. There’s a tree growing in the backyard before there are linens on a single bed. But grow it does. Winry suspects some part of it – the seed, the dirt – is imbued with alchemy, for how else could the little thing grow so fast? Hardly anything is supposed to grow in those last weeks before winter gives way to spring, let alone flourish. But by the time spring has come in earnest, the little tree’s branches extend over her head, and are covered all over with perfect pink blooms. The petals are just as soft as she imagined. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed get's his butt kicked in the next chapter


	2. unexpected guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger arrives to ruin Ed's life. Ed has to fight for the first time in years.

_Run where you'll be safe_  
_Through the garden gates_  
_To the shelter of_  
_magnolias_

* * *

**The Next Summer**

* * *

 There are men leaning against the gate in front of the house. Ed sees them when he makes it to the crest of the hill and rounds the corner. He slows instinctively and shifts the weight of the large paper sacks in his arms, but doesn’t stop walking. As he draws nearer, he can see that there are four of them, all wearing black tailored suits, except for one whose suit is dark grey. He sees no military uniforms or insignias, so it’s neither an official summons nor a social call. The curtains of the downstairs front facing windows are opened to let in the light, and Ed can see movement in the back side window to the kitchen, a flash of long blonde hair. 

He’s about ten meters away or so when the men finally turn. The three in black suits have their bodies angled slightly towards the man in grey. This close, Edward makes out better details, like how the suits are all streamlined and expensive looking, but that of the grey-suited man looks even more so.  He tries to be observant, but not judgmental. Winry teases him sometimes: “You’re always so _suspicious_ of everything.” It’s true, it’s been a peaceful few years. But still: he knows better.

The grey-suited man fixes his gaze on him, intently. 

Edward comes to a stop on the opposite side of the fence gate. Through the paper of the bag he feels the hard cool glass bottle of milk, the roundness of several pounds of apples, the soft give of the sack of dried corn. He rests a hand on the latch of the gate. “Good afternoon,” he says, leveling his gaze. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He knows Winry has warned him off from being constantly suspect, but Ed can’t help peering at the four figures. He takes in poorly obscured firearm bulges under two of the black suits, as well as a thin sheathed blade worn unconcealed on the waist of the man in the grey suit. Edward has taken to wearing a dagger himself, despite being urged by Hawkeye to carry a firearm whenever she sees him. Whatever these men want, it’s definitely not a social call. He shoots a glance to the house.

The face of the grey-suited man breaks into a thin, toothy smile. “Well, I certainly hope so. Are you the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric?” 

Ed frowns, despite himself. “I am Edward Elric, yes. I don’t believe we’ve met before…?”

“Not til now, I’m afraid. My name is Gridley Hart. I’m a business man, of sorts.”

“How can I help you today, Mr. Hart?” 

There’s something in Hart’s face that’s familiar, but Ed can’t quite place it. His long black hair is interspersed with silver and tied behind his neck. His face is lined, but not heavily, with light crinkles that appear around his light blue eyes as he smiles. “You must get your manners from your wife; she invited us in to wait for you while you were away, but I couldn’t impose.” 

Ed’s grip tightens on his bags. “She’s not my – I’m sorry, what is it you think I can help you with?”

“Pardon the assumption.” Hart’s smile deepens. “I’d like to hire you to provide me with some protection, Mr. Elric.”

Hiring an alchemist as a bodyguard wasn’t uncommon, seen as a possible career path for alchemists who chose not to enlist with the military. But if you needed an alchemist skilled in combat and protection, it probably meant that you were a person with a knack of making and collecting enemies. The kind of person with whom Edward really had no interest in doing any kind of business, especially not in front of his house, especially not with Winry so close.

“I’m not a soldier anymore, Mr. Hart.” _Nor a practicing alchemist,_ he thinks. “I can’t help you.”

“Oh, I have plenty of physical protection,” Hart gestures to the men behind him. “Though I have heard you are a skilled combatant. No, I was thinking of something a bit more… hm, a bit more permanent.”

Edward’s pulse speeds up. “Permanent?” 

“Yes.” Hart takes a single step closer. “I’ve heard stories–myths, legends–of an object that can grant the bearer immortality. Some stories say that it’s not an object at all, but a person, though I don’t really know what to make of that. Tell me, Mr. Elric, how exactly _do_ you acquire a Philosopher’s Stone? Are they found or made? What does it take to make one?”

God, not here. Not now. “There is no such thing as immortality.” The image of his father’s quiet grave enters his mind. “There is _no_ such thing as immortality. I can’t help you.” Nothing can. 

Hart furrows his brow and takes another step forward. The three men behind him move forward as well. He sighs and folds his arm across his chest. “That’s… that’s not the answer I was looking for, Mr. Elric, I’ll admit. But I didn’t get to my station in life by accepting “no” as an answer.” 

“It _is_ my answer. My final answer.” _What are the chances of this guy just pissing off_? Ed knows: none. 

There’s a scraping sound, a lock being undone. “I thought I heard––” Ed turns his head in time to see Winry opening the front door, a cooking apron tied around her waist, flour on her face along with a wide-eyed expression of mild confusion. “Oh.”

Hart looked towards the door as well. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to change your mind.” He raises his hand. 

In the same second, Edward yells “ _Winry!”_ louder than he’s had to yell in a long time, maybe louder than he’s ever yelled before. “ _Go!_ ” 

She shuts the door with a sound that’s swallowed by the pulse roaring in his ears. One of Hart’s men darts toward the house while another lunges towards Edward, pulling out one of the poorly concealed guns from under his jacket. His finger is on the trigger and Ed moves, unthinking, in memory of a thousand fights before. The grocery sacks drop, glass shattering, eggs smashing, apples rolling across the gravel and grass. He grabs the gun from the goon’s outstretched arm with one hand and delivers a blow to his elbow. There’s the unmistakable _crack_ of breaking bone and the man screams in pain and falls to the ground beside the apples. He releases the gun which Edward uses to take aim. The mercenary has hardly made it to the front door when one bullet sinks into his upper thigh and the other passes through the back of his bicep. He bellows in pain and whips around, gun raised, teeth bared. 

Ed nearly throws up his right arm as a reflex, but it’s just as flesh as his other. The mercenary’s aim is shit, and probably would be anyway without him having been shot. Blood gushes from both wounds. He’s not gonna last long. The guy on the ground attempts to get up and Ed grounds the heel of his automail foot into his hand and ignores the scream as he raises the gun at the bleeding man still charging towards him. Some hulking mass sideswipes him, hard, and he stumbles, nearly falling. 

Towering above him is Hart’s third bodyguard, who is not a man, but maybe once was. He’s nearly doubled in size, his flesh cabled with muscle and bursting from the shredded, expensive suit, and he’s half covered in dark, thick hair. He raises a hand that’s turned into a massive paw, complete with claws. He’s not like Heinkel or Darius or even like Greed’s chimeras, he looks like a chimera of a chimera, man and beast and beast. Edward can only stare on in horror before he remembers the gun in his hand. He takes one shot that meets the flesh of the chimera’s shoulder, but it’s hardly enough to  slow him down.

A mighty paw comes down across his face and knocks him to his knees. He ignores the blood dripping into his eyes, the pain, and rises quickly. He’s dropped his gun and seizes his dagger, still sheathed at his waist. The chimera shrieks at him with an ungodly sound and raises an arm but Edward is faster. There’s the sound of a gun going off. It screams again as the blade sticks in its flank, halfway to the hilt. Ed pulls it out but before he can thrust it forward again his enemy knees him in the gut and the blow knocks him on his ass, breathless. 

The earth only a few inches from his left ear explodes with the impact of another bullet. Fuck. Fuck. He pulls himself to his feet and picks up the dropped dagger. The man with the shattered elbow managed to draw another gun from somewhere about his person and had struggled to his knees, not far. _Why can’t they ever stay down?_ Edward thinks. The shaking, bleeding hand drops the gun. Edward shambles over and punches the guy in the face once, twice, picks up the gun in time to dodge another swipe from the chimera. Breathing heavy, he gives the man on the floor a final kick to the face. 

Turning his back was a mistake. The chimera seizes him in his arms, lifting him, and twists his body in a way it is definitely not meant to be twisted. Ed kicks and flails. His automail leg makes heavy contact over and over again and he throws back his arms and his blade sticks, the chimera bellows in his ear, the blade sticks again, the chimera drops him. The blade stays. 

Edward rolls into a crouch. The beast rips the blade from where it stuck fast in the place where its neck met its shoulder. Blood gushes. It shrieks again, the gurgling sound of a dying animal. Ed scrabbles backward and to his feet. His breathing comes fast and uneven and his heart pounds in his ears while adrenaline makes his body tremble all over. 

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake_.”

He turns. Hart is right behind him, his face wearing a mask of fury and disgust. Edward hardly has time to register his presence before the man lurches forward. The tip of his sword easily parts clothing, skin, and flesh alike. Edward feels it pierce all the way through his side, he feels it enter and exit through him. He can’t even gasp, just gapes, not breathing. With a fluid motion, Hart pulls the blade from his body, eliciting a small sound that catches in his throat. 

Before he can react, Hart drops to the ground, palms down, and with a flash of blue light, a compact earth pillar erupts before him. It hits Ed square in the chest, sending him flying. He lands, his head snapping back _hard_ against the ground, rolls over, skids, everything blue-brown-blue-red, the sky and earth roiling both above and below him. He ends up on his back, the endless sky above greying over, but he knows he can’t lie here – he has to get up, make sure that Winry got away, make sure Hart doesn’t get in the house and get his hands on his research. He tries to roll onto his stomach, but the pain that courses through his body and head rips a guttural moan from his throat. He feels heavy, like he’s moving through syrup, or that time has slowed. 

“ _Brother!_ ” 

He’s hearing things from his past. He must be hallucinating. Or maybe time, maybe history, is finally catching up, here to overtake him. There’s a flash of blue light, voices, the distinct alchemic sound of the earth being torn and remade, destroyed, and made again. _Winry_ , he thinks. _Winry, Winry, Winry_. He hopes she ran – past their garden, past their magnolia tree _–_ he hopes she kept running, that she’s still running, that she’s safe. He hopes she safe. He prays to nothing that she’s safe. Winry, Winry, Winry. The wound in his side feels like grief. 

“Edward, brother, wake up, _please._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first fight scene I've ever written - let me know how it went! I ought to be updating later this week.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. new tricks

* * *

_Your eyes are like sea glass, so weathered and worn_  
_From all they've seen of adolescence torn_

* * *

Pinako has never moved so fast in her damn life. She hears Winry calling her from outside––no, not so much calling her as _screaming_ for her. A gut-wrenching, “Granny! _Granny!_ ” spooks her into action. She jumps up from the table where she sat counting receipts and grabs the old shotgun still leaning against the wall by the coat tree and runs out onto the porch. Winry stands in the yard, panting, face red and full of fear. 

Oh, Lord, what now?

“What’s happened?” she demands, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice as she meets her granddaughter at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you alright?”

“Granny, these men came to the house, they attacked Ed––I heard gunshots. He’s––“

“Winry. Breathe. Ed has been a fighter all his life, you know that.” Her grip tightens on the gun. “Just breathe.” 

Winry takes a few deep breaths but her expression doesn’t change. “We have to go. He needs our help.”

Together grandmother and granddaughter run as fast as their bodies will take them in the direction of the new house. Pinako falls behind, of course, and other than occasional glances over her shoulder, Winry doesn’t slow. Winry’s lungs burn, begging her to pause, to slow down, but she can’t. Over so many years she’s heard all the ways Ed could refer to her, all the ways he could say her name. But never like that––

_“Winry! Go!”_

––Never so loud, so full of fear. It’s what spurs her on, propels her forward. She doesn’t slow her pace a bit until the house is in view. She comes to a stop a few meters away. Her brain is having trouble processing what she sees.

The flat yard is marred by an angled stone pillar emerging from the ground, joined by other earthen upheavals and another strange dirt mound. There are black suited bodies lying near each other, as well as what looks like the body of… of a huge bear. 

But what truly captures her attention are the two figures on the path. One is Edward, lying on his back, face turned away. Kneeling over him is Alphonse. 

“Al…?” 

The younger Elric brother wasn’t due to arrive until the end of the week at the earliest. But he’s right there, kneeling on the ground, and looks up at the oncoming figures. A complicated expression breaks across his face: relief that doesn’t overshadow fear. Unease.

And then she sees that Ed is covered in blood. 

“Oh, God. Ed.” It feels like someone is holding her heart in both hands and squeezing, aiming to burst. She’s having trouble breathing, and she’s not sure it’s all entirely from her sprint. 

“Winry…” Pinako is at her elbow, looking from the brothers to her granddaughter and back again. She pants from exertion. 

Alphonse is torn between beckoning them over and telling her to stay back, but before he can decide, Winry runs the last few feet over and falls to her knees beside the two brothers. 

Ed’s eyes are closed. She wants to touch him, but she can’t; she’s frozen. Blood is still weeping from the cuts on his face, making his bangs stick to his forehead. It pools on the ground, soaking into the dirt, from a wound somewhere on his torso. She feels her eyes begin to burn and her throat start to close and she knows that crying isn't going to help anything, but she’s finding it very hard to convince herself when Ed is on the ground and looking like _that_ , eyes closed and covered in blood. 

Pinako settles in opposite her, beside Alphonse, her practiced hands deftly pulling aside Edward’s torn shirt. Her fingers probe the edges of a narrow open wound and Winry forces herself not to look away. 

“This wound goes all the way through.” Pinako grits her teeth and turns to Al. “He’s losing a lot of blood. Can you carry him back to my house?”

Al shakes his head. “Not by myself. It’s too far. But…” He looks down at the leather bag strapped across his chest. “Try to stop the bleeding, okay?”

Winry unties her apron and passes it to her grandmother over Ed’s body. She moves to cradle his head in her lap and finds a gash in the back, in his layers of golden hair. Blood transfers to her fingers and palms. “Oh. _Ed_. With careful fingertips, she brushes his bangs away from his face. 

“I only saw a little of the fight.” Al’s voice is hollow when he answers, removing an assortment of items from his bag: glass bottles, short blades, pieces of chalk, notebooks and loose pages. “A man with long hair s-stabbed him with his sword, then knocked him back with the stone pillar.”

“I saw them. Ed told me to run. Did––Did that man get away?”

“No. I made sure he didn’t.” His voice is solemn as he draws a circle in the dirt with one of the short blades. It’s unlike any transmutation circle Winry has ever seen, but she knows it must be alkahestry, or a mix of alkahestry and alchemy. “Okay. Move away, please, Granny.” 

Pinako shuffles back and Al carefully removes the blood-soaked apron from his brother’s side without disturbing the circle. He presses his hands together over his chest, then claps one in the center of the circle and one on the wound. There’s the familiar spark of blue light and Alphonse screws up his face in concentration while Winry and Pinako look on, not breathing. After what feels like ages, though it must only be less than ten seconds, the light dissipates. Alphonse lets himself slump forward slightly. He opens his eyes and wipes away sweat that’s accumulated on his brow. He runs his fingers over his brother’s blood soaked side. The previously gaping and weeping wound weeps no more and gapes slightly less. It appears as it would after a few days of healing––had it been sutured in a hospital.  

“Well.” Pinako says at last. “I’ve seen you’ve learned quite a bit while you were away.”

Despite everything, the corners of Al’s mouth quirk in an attempted smile. “Times are changing, Granny.” He looks down at his brother again, eyes still closed, but face twitching. “Okay. Let’s move him.”

* * *

His eyes open to the softest blue he’s ever seen. It’s cocooned by clouds with edges like torn paper and the grey fuzziness of unconsciousness. His internal orientation is currently misplaced; though he knows that the sky is above him, he feels as if he’s staring downward into the bottom of a huge basin. His eyes close again. He doesn’t mind. He was starting to get dizzy. 

* * *

Like many things in his life, Edward must fight for consciousness. Desperation pierces through and propels him forward. He claws through oscillating darkness, guided by a cacophony of different feelings and sounds that may be voices. He latches onto those sounds and allows them to carry him up, up, and he breaks the surface of wakefulness like a bubble bursting on the surface of a lake.

He opens his eyes first to a ceiling, but not just any ceiling: his ceiling. He’d recognize it anywhere, because he built it. He placed every beam, every nail, every damned plank of wood and stroke of paint. It's the ceiling that hangs above the kitchen. He can even make out springs of dried herbs tied with twine hanging from a low rafter. His hand twitches. He presses his palm down, feels the rough edge of their kitchen table, the finely woven table cloth, a powdery finish that can only be flour. He deduces, sluggishly, that he’s…lying on their kitchen table. And that he got his ass thoroughly handed to him. 

A dozen different parts of his body cry out for attention. His face scrunches up with the onset of feeling that speeds along the waking-up process, and he groans, quietly. The voices hush, then return in full force, louder. His name in three different ways. 

_“Ed!”_

_“Edward, open your eyes.”_

_“Ed? Can you hear me? Wake up, please.”_

He blinks and the next thing he registers are the faces of Granny, Winry, and –– yes, and Alphonse –– hovering above him. His breath catches in his throat. He blinks again, his vision clearing even further. They all look okay, eyes wide and mouths tight, but no blood or bandages or open cuts. They're okay. 

“That’s it, Ed. That's it. Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?”

He’s confused as to why Granny would be asking him if he knows who she is, the woman who practically raised him, the woman who always made sure that he and his brother never went to sleep hungry. He tries to make his brain and mouth work together, but it’s hard. It’s like half of him is still asleep. He manages to groan again, then say, “Gran.” Then, “Winry.” Then, “Al.” He lifts his arm in an attempt to reach for his brother, but doesn’t quite make it. 

Al catches his fingers in his hand and gives them a slight squeeze. He looks tired. “How do you _still_ manage to get into trouble?” He even sounds tired.

Ed could laugh. He wants to. He wants to say _It’s just what happens without you looking out for me_ but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches out his other hand towards Winry who grips it with both of hers. He says, “What’s the trouble now, brother?” 

His three guardians exchange looks over his body. He doesn’t appreciate it. 

“We don’t know, Ed. We were hoping you could tell us.” Granny’s voice is careful, but her frown deepens. 

Winry’s voice trembles, just a touch. “What did those men want?” 

Men? He tries to remember, but can only recall Winry asking him to pick up apples from the market that morning, so she could make a pie. For Alphonse. Who was coming to Resembool for a visit, soon, in a few days, at the end of the week. He doesn’t even remember shopping, or going into town. The amnesia isn’t something he’s completely unfamiliar with, it usually goes hand in hand with waking up disoriented, in strange places. He must have hit his head. 

The moment he thinks about it, pain registers in his head. It seems to emanate from a point at the back of his skull, but it surrounds his brain like a blanket. Oh, yeah. Definitely hit his head. At this point, he's really mostly pain. Whatever happened, it wasn’t good. The pain in his side is intense and deep, but not the brightness of a freshly dealt wound. It’s strange, he can’t quite place it. His chest hurts, his ribs: bruised, maybe broken. Another familiar feeling. The pain is heavy; it weighs down both his body and mind.

“I don't remember,” he admits quietly. He thinks going back to sleep wouldn’t be a bad idea. 

The three exchange more looks. He really does hate that. 

“It’s okay. You hit your head pretty hard. We’ll get you something to help with the pain soon.”

“Okay.” The edges of his vision are starting to grey, the faces and ceiling above him beginning to blur.  Ed doesn't fight his lowering eyelids. “Wake me when you do.”

“Edward—no—”

He can't help it. He's so tired.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter to be a lot longer but I've been staring at it for weeks without making much progress. Here's to the next one being a little easier to write. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback is appreciated and always very nice to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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